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At Tomis, in Bessarabia, near the Mouths of the Danube
Tristia, Book III., Elegy X.
SHOULD any one there in Rome remember Ovid the exile, | |
| And, without me, my name still in the city survive; | |
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| Tell him that under stars which never set in the ocean | |
| I am existing still, here in a barbarous land. | |
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| Fierce Sarmatians encompass me round, and the Bessi and Getæ; | 5 |
| Names how unworthy to be sung by a genius like mine! | |
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| Yet when the air is warm, intervening Ister defends us: | |
| He, as he flows, repels inroads of war with his waves. | |
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| But when the dismal winter reveals its hideous aspect, | |
| When all the earth becomes white with a marble-like frost; | 10 |
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| And when Boreas is loosed, and the snow hurled under Arcturus, | |
| Then these nations, in sooth, shudder and shiver with cold. | |
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| Deep lies the snow, and neither the sun nor the rain can dissolve it; | |
| Boreas hardens it still, makes it forever remain. | |
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| Hence, ere the first has melted away, another succeeds it. | 15 |
| And two years it is wont, in many places, to lie. | |
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| And so great is the power of the Northwind awakened, it levels | |
| Lofty towers with the ground, roofs uplifted bears off. | |
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| Wrapped in skins, and with trousers sewed, they contend with the weather, | |
| And their faces alone of the whole body are seen. | 20 |
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| Often their tresses, when shaken, with pendent icicles tinkle, | |
| And their whitened beards shine with the gathering frost. | |
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| Wines consolidate stand, preserving the form of the vessels; | |
| No more draughts of wine,—pieces presented they drink. | |
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| Why should I tell you how all the rivers are frozen and solid, | 25 |
| And from out of the lake frangible water is dug? | |
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| Ister,—no narrower stream than the river that bears the papyrus,— | |
| Which through its many mouths mingles its waves with the deep; | |
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| Ister, with hardening winds, congeals its cerulean waters, | |
| Under a roof of ice winding its way to the sea. | 30 |
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| There where ships have sailed, men go on foot; and the billows, | |
| Solid made by the frost, hoof-beats of horses indent. | |
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| Over unwonted bridges, with water gliding beneath them, | |
| The Sarmatian steers drag their barbarian carts. | |
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| Scarcely shall I be believed; yet when naught is gained by a falsehood, | 35 |
| Absolute credence then should to a witness be given. | |
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| I have beheld the vast Black Sea of ice all compacted, | |
| And a slippery crust pressing its motionless tides. | |
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| ’T is not enough to have seen, I have trodden this indurate ocean; | |
| Dry shod passed my foot over its uppermost wave. | 40 |
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| If thou hadst had of old such a sea as this is, Leander! | |
| Then thy death had not been charged as a crime to the Strait. | |
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| Nor can the curvèd dolphins uplift themselves from the water; | |
| All their struggles to rise merciless winter prevents; | |
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| And though Boreas sound with roar of wings in commotion, | 45 |
| In the blockaded gulf never a wave will there be; | |
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| And the ships will stand hemmed in by the frost, as in marble, | |
| Nor will the oar have power through the stiff waters to cleave. | |
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| Fast-bound in the ice have I seen the fishes adhering, | |
| Yet notwithstanding this some of them still were alive. | 50 |
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| Hence, if the savage strength of omnipotent Boreas freezes | |
| Whether the salt-sea wave, whether the refluent stream,— | |
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| Straightway,—the Ister made level by arid blasts of the North-wind,— | |
| Comes the barbaric foe borne on his swift-footed steed; | |
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| Foe, that powerful made by his steed and his far-flying arrows, | 55 |
| All the neighboring land void of inhabitants makes. | |
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| Some take flight, and none being left to defend their possessions, | |
| Unprotected, their goods pillage and plunder become; | |
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| Cattle and creaking carts, the little wealth of the country, | |
| And what riches beside indigent peasants possess. | 60 |
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| Some as captives are driven along, their hands bound behind them, | |
| Looking backward in vain toward their Lares and lands. | |
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| Others, transfixed with barbèd arrows, in agony perish. | |
| For the swift arrow-heads all have in poison been dipped. | |
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| What they cannot carry or lead away they demolish, | 65 |
| And the hostile flames burn up the innocent cots. | |
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| Even when there is peace, the fear of war is impending; | |
| None, with the ploughshare pressed, furrows the soil any more. | |
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| Either this region sees, or fears a foe that it sees not, | |
| And the sluggish land slumbers in utter neglect. | 70 |
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| No sweet grape lies hidden here in the shade of its vine-leaves, | |
| No fermenting must fills and o’erflows the deep vats. | |
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| Apples the region denies; nor would Acontius have found here | |
| Aught upon which to write words for his mistress to read. | |
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| Naked and barren plains without leaves or trees we behold here,— | 75 |
| Places, alas! unto which no happy man would repair. | |
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| Since then this mighty orb lies open so wide upon all sides, | |
| Has this region been found only my prison to be? | |
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Tristia, Book III., Elegy XII.
Now the zephyrs diminish the cold, and the year being ended, | |
| Winter Mæotian seems longer than ever before; | 80 |
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| And the Ram that bore unsafely the burden of Helle, | |
| Now makes the hours of the day equal with those of the night. | |
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| Now the boys and the laughing girls the violet gather, | |
| Which the fields bring forth, nobody sowing the seed. | |
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| Now the meadows are blooming with flowers of various colors, | 85 |
| And with untaught throats carol the garrulous birds. | |
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| Now the swallow, to shun the crime of her merciless mother, | |
| Under the rafters builds cradles and dear little homes; | |
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| And the blade that lay hid, covered up in the furrows of Ceres, | |
| Now from the tepid ground raises its delicate head. | 90 |
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| Where there is ever a vine, the bud shoots forth from the tendrils, | |
| But from the Getic shore distant afar is the vine! | |
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| Where there is ever a tree, on the tree the branches are swelling, | |
| But from the Getic land distant afar is the tree! | |
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| Now it is holiday there in Rome, and to games in due order | 95 |
| Give place the windy wars of the vociferous bar. | |
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| Now they are riding the horses; with light arms now they are playing, | |
| Now with the ball, and now round rolls the swift-flying hoop: | |
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| Now, when the young athlete with flowing oil is anointed, | |
| He in the Virgin’s Fount bathes, overwearied, his limbs. | 100 |
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| Thrives the stage; and applause, with voices at variance, thunders, | |
| And the Theatres three for the three Forums resound. | |
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| Four times happy is he, and times without number is happy, | |
| Who the city of Rome, uninterdicted, enjoys. | |
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| But all I see is the snow in the vernal sunshine dissolving, | 105 |
| And the waters no more delved from the indurate lake. | |
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| Nor is the sea now frozen, nor as before o’er the Ister | |
| Comes the Sarmatian boor driving his stridulous cart. | |
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| Hitherward, nevertheless, some keels already are steering, | |
| And on this Pontic shore alien vessels will be. | 110 |
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| Eagerly shall I run to the sailor, and, having saluted, | |
| Who he may be, I shall ask; wherefore and whence he hath come. | |
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| Strange indeed will it be, if he come not from regions adjacent, | |
| And incautious unless ploughing the neighboring sea. | |
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| Rarely a mariner over the deep from Italy passes, | 115 |
| Rarely he comes to these shores, wholly of harbors devoid. | |
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| Whether he knoweth Greek, or whether in Latin he speaketh, | |
| Surely on this account he the more welcome will be. | |
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| Also perchance from the mouth of the Strait and the waters Propontic, | |
| Unto the steady South-wind, some one is spreading his sails. | 120 |
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| Whosoever he is, the news he can faithfully tell me, | |
| Which may become a part and an approach to the truth. | |
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| He, I pray, may be able to tell me the triumphs of Cæsar, | |
| Which he has heard of, and vows paid to the Latian Jove; | |
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| And that thy sorrowful head, Germania, thou, the rebellious, | 125 |
| Under the feet, at last, of the Great Captain hast laid. | |
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| Whoso shall tell me the things, that not to have seen will afflict me, | |
| Forthwith unto my house welcomed as guest shall he be. | |
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| Woe is me! Is the house of Ovid in Scythian lands now? | |
| And doth punishment now give me its place for a home? | 130 |
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| Grant, ye gods, that Cæsar make this not my house and my homestead, | |
| But decree it to be only the inn of my pain. | |
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